


Friday's child is full of soul

by musterings



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward Crush, Babysitter AU, Developing Friendships, Eventual time skip, Friendship, Gen, Ignis is a babysitter - Freeform, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Teen Crush, will mostly be friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-11-27 18:05:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18197549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musterings/pseuds/musterings
Summary: Clarus paid handsomely for the one night a week Ignis could spare for various reasons: one, he is very grateful that a 17-year-old with exceptional references and immaculate police checks could even deign to regularly give up their Friday nights on short notice (and Ignis was too proud to admit that he never really had much to do on Friday nights). And two, Clarus Amicitia, despite how much he loved his children with all his heart, could still admit the very children he loved with all his heart, could be quite the imposition on others unprepared for their combined energy levels.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of this [tweet](https://twitter.com/lonelylop/status/1105496111383527424?s=09) and this [tweet](https://twitter.com/beanclam/status/1105639940660948992).

 

Construction of the Amicitia babysitter job description started off with adjectives like dependable, high energy, organised and disciplined. After that, Clarus Amicitia was at a complete loss.

 

Clarus’s work tended to keep him rooted in his office late evenings, most nights a week. It had been a difficult balancing act, since the unfortunate and untimely death of his late wife, but he managed, partly by the grace of the gods, but mostly by the grace of their longtime household butler Jared. Clarus’s children loved Jared and Jared loved them, sometimes to the point of spoiling both son and daughter (which Clarus often turned a blind eye to, guilty of it himself).

Jared’s daughter had recently married and was blessed with a baby boy, and their family had moved closer to Insomnia, just past its outskirts, an overnight coach bus ride away.

Jared had humbly requested if for one night a week, could he possibly spend time with his daughter every weekend? He hadn’t spent long periods of time with her since he had moved to Insomnia himself. Clarus couldn’t find it in himself to refuse, it was a sensible request, from one father to another, and the man hadn’t taken a single day’s leave in the time he had known him, but this left his children woefully unsupervised on Friday nights, just until Clarus got home. It was too short a span of time to ask his weekend housekeeper to come in, and too long a stretch of time to leave them alone with a clear peace of mind, and he had overheard a co-worker once suggest to one other, why not hire a babysitter?

Finding a fully vetted babysitter with the references and the lack of an inclination to bring harm to the Amicitia children would have been a long process, one that Clarus Amicitia would never have time for. The Amicitias were a high profile family linked with and second only to the Lucis Caelums in fame. So though inconvenient, the vetting process was necessary.

To his great fortune, the barebones job description he penned on the back of a coffee-cup holder during a meeting never needed to circulate, as a fellow father came to his aid yet again. His longtime friend and business associate Regis (Lucis Caelum, if that now rings a bell) had pointed out that he had already gone through such an arduous selection process in the search for a tutor for his own son, and equally as fortunate was that his son detested schoolwork on a Friday night, leaving his tutor an extra night a week for an extra job. And anyone good enough to look after the heir of a property mogul is good enough for his own children.

This tutor was one Ignis Scientia, at 17 years old, was a model student with exceptional grades and extensive experience working with kids through paid employment and volunteer work, and a varied range of extracurriculars that belie Ignis’s leadership and organisation skills and adaptability. _And,_ Clarus had spied from the “Hobbies and activities” section, normally an afterthought in a résumé, he could _cook_.

At first Clarus was wary, a teenage boy for a babysitter, with worries about how Iris would get on, or he would recall stories from friends and coworkers of babysitters sneaking their friends or significant others into their employer's houses.

But then Ignis had asked during the interview, a formality really, considering Regis’s aides had already done most of the groundwork, if he could bring his study materials and homework with him if he finds himself unoccupied? He was aiming for a university scholarship _and_ he was working another part-time job on weekends, so he would really appreciate getting ahead in schoolwork, if that was possible.

Yep, he knew then and there that he would never have to worry about unwanted house parties nor visitors with Ignis. He had agreed to Ignis's request and hired him on the spot.

“Now there’s just the question of permission in writing,” said Clarus, flipping to the end of Ignis’s résumé, down to his emergency contact listing, _Relation: Uncle_ , located at the same address.

Ignis sat stiffly in a seat across his desk, gripping onto the folder he held in his lap, as if bracing himself for what Clarus would ask next. 

“Just bring along a signed note from your parent or guardian on your first evening and we’ll get you started,” Clarus rose from his seat and stretched out his hand, “Can’t tell you enough how grateful we are to have you Ignis.”

Ignis let out a small breath of relief and took the hand in a firm grip, “I won’t let you down sir.”

  
  
  
Clarus paid handsomely for the one night a week Ignis could spare for various reasons: one, he is very grateful that a 17-year-old with exceptional references and immaculate police checks could even deign to regularly give up their Friday nights on short notice (and Ignis was too proud to admit that he never really had much to do on Friday nights). And two, Clarus Amicitia, despite how much he loved his children with all his heart, could still admit the _very children_ he loved with all his heart, could be quite the imposition on others unprepared for their combined energy levels.  

Iris, bless her soul, had been spoiled rotten by father, brother and butler, and was prone to nuclear temper tantrums, and her older brother Gladiolus, deep in the uncharted waters of puberty, though too old for tantrums, had quite the explosive temper.

Though Ignis was no doubt overzealously prepared, Ignis’s fears nor Clarus’s warnings never came to fruition.

 

From the onset, Iris was excited to be around a bigger kid that wasn’t her older brother. To Iris, Ignis was handsome, a real polite gentleman, who talked like a lot of the princes in her princess movies, even _dressed_ like the princes in her movies (Iris never really sees much young people in button ups and slacks) and more importantly, Ignis had never once treated her like a baby. Ignis was in every respect the polar opposite of her older brother.

(She had tried to convince Gladiolus that having a babysitter wasn’t all bad once, regaling him of Ignis’s _pretty_ green eyes and his gentle voice and the sugary, sugary cookies he bakes with her. Gladiolus would just roll his eyes, he hadn’t even met the guy and he already sounded obnoxious.)

Eager to impress, young Iris Amicitia had only ever been sweet and mature under Ignis’s supervision, astounding Clarus in disbelief when Ignis had said as much..

Young Gladiolus rarely showed himself around the manor, if at all.

 

“I don’t _need_ a babysitter,” Gladiolus had repeated for the 200th time, one week or so before this _Ignis_ was meant to show up, in the car on their way to rugby practice.

“For the last time Gladiolus, the babysitter isn’t for you, he’s for Iris,” Clarus had said with a side eye from the driver's’ seat, and then seeing Gladiolus open his mouth once more, he cuts him off with, “I understand you are also capable of taking care of Iris, but that was with Jared around. I need to know there’s someone responsible who can be with her, who I can count on when I'm out working late.”

“I can be responsible,” grumbled Gladiolus, glaring daggers at passers-by through the car window.

Clarus sighed. He can’t argue with that, in principle. Gladiolus _can_ be responsible, but at his age, he can’t guarantee that he always will be. And Clarus can’t fault him for that.

“All the more reason for you to cooperate with Ignis then, right? Show him the ropes a little.”

Gladiolus had scoffed the conversation closed. Clarus considered this a win for now.

 

Nevertheless, Clarus did worry. He supposed two teenage boys would be a hassle, could be volatile, their interactions nigh unpredictable, no matter how well referenced one of them may be.  

Another longtime friend of Clarus’s swept in to his rescue. Cor Leonis had served a career in the Insomnian military, and he knew exactly what the remedy was for inordinate proportions of temper and of physical size. Cor had offered to take Gladiolus to his workouts at the gym on Friday evenings, mainly to have someone guide the kid into the world of strength training and conditioning that he can take with him into the sporting arena and eventually adulthood, but mostly for him to let out all his “teenage angst in a healthy productive manner.”

“He can be quite brash and unruly, even for a boy his age. You honestly wouldn't want to deal with it,” sighed the elder Amicitia one evening when Ignis asked about it, “I would have to double your rate if you did.”

Ignis had seen Gladiolus on some Fridays, just before he left the house for his uncle’s, and Ignis had never been more grateful that Gladiolus wasn't his charge.

As tall as himself (or maybe even taller), with broad shoulders and a heavy brow, Ignis had first mistaken him for an even older Amicitia son that Clarus had maybe forgotten to mention (or chosen not to).

He would later offhandedly inquire with Iris what having two brothers must be like. Surely this was her older-older-brother he had run into, and not the 13-year-old Gladiolus?

Iris had stared at him like he was the stupidest person she'd ever met in the five years she had been alive. “I've only got one brother,” she said as a matter-of-factly, before pounding her playdough with a small fist into the coffee table.

Ignis never complained nor questioned further. Scrawny little Noctis, one boy under his tutelage, he could goad into his times-tables and reading exercises. He couldn’t possibly imagine asking, let alone _telling_ Gladiolus to do anything. He had never been more thankful for ex-military uncles with free Friday evenings.

But alas, contrary to details from Iris's wild storytelling, even ex-military uncles are mortals who could succumb to simple flu viruses.

Ignis arrives one Friday evening, and the door opens to a very guilty looking Clarus Amicitia.

That was strange enough: normally Jared greets and briefs Ignis before he leaves for the bus station.

“Look Ignis, I really do apologise for the short notice.”

Perplexed, Ignis follows Clarus into the living room.

In front of the TV stands Iris and her brother Gladiolus facing each other, each Amicitia holding a game controller to their hip and a fierce gaze locked at their opponent.

Ignis recognises the game on the TV, where the game's camera detects who has the “best runway pose.”

With all the seriousness they could muster, they both strut, hips haphazardly swaying in a way where they must both think _surely this is how models do this_ , closing the distance between them, before rapidly turning to face the game console camera perched on the TV.

Iris stands on one leg and raises her arms in the air, while Gladiolus squats down with hands on his thighs, weight on one leg.

The game calculates the score, then announces the winner.

“That is so not fair!” whines Iris, “I've been practicing my posing every time you're at Uncle Cor’s!”.

Gladiolus's straightens up and puts both of his hands on his hip, and cocking it to one side  to delight in his sister’s loss.

“Better luck next time moogle,” scoffs Gladiolus, unaware of the amused audience behind him.

“You really couldn't have let your sister win this time? Winning ten times before wasn't enough?” asks Clarus.

Iris could not stand for such injustice. “That's not fair either!,” she yells with a stomp, “I want to win this properly!”

“So what're you gonna do about it then?” asks Gladiolus.

Iris pouts and crosses her little arms. “...More practice.”

“Alrighty, that's the moral of today's story. Now let's try the plate spinning game.”

Clarus clears his throat. “If I may interrupt such a valuable learning experience, I need just a moment with you two, now that Ignis has arrived.”

Iris quickly turns and bounds over and hugs Ignis around the waist with a squeal.

“Gods sakes Dad, I thought I told you I didn’t need a baby-” Gladiolus turns and meets Ignis’s eyes, which are really, sincerely apologetic.

Gladiolus’s mouth clamps shut, mortification briefly flashes across his face, and his eyes dart from the controller to his hand, to the amused smile Ignis is trying to suppress, to his father then back to Ignis.

(In this space of time, Gladiolus's brain has already formed connections with Iris’s sweeping descriptions of the guy, and the creature in front of him. Gladiolus can corroborate. Except for maybe-)

Ignis does the polite thing and stretches out a hand towards the stunned teen, “Ignis.” He already knows of course, but figures he may as well ask, “And you must be?”

(Yep, gentle princely voice, check. It all checks out.)

Gladiolus crosses his arms and turns his chin up at Ignis, ignoring the proffered hand completely, “ _This_ is the guy looking after Iris?”

“ _Gladiolus,_ ” Clarus warns before turning back to Ignis, “Ignis, this is Gladiolus.”

Gladiolus continues to glare, but Ignis smiles back, hoping it's exuding enough warmth and harmlessness. Sure’s he’s intimidated and he’s still unsure of what to do with his outstretched hand, but he wasn’t raised in a barn. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Gladiolus.”

Gladiolus's glare intensifies and then he turns to pull Clarus away to talk to him privately, while Iris runs up to give Ignis’s awkwardly outstretched hand a small high five. 

“I thought I told you I didn't need a babysitter,” hisses Gladiolus.

“And I agreed did I not? He is _Iris’s_ babysitter,” corrects Clarus.

“ _We_ don't need a babysitter, I can take care of Iris fine by myself,” Gladiolus glances back at where Ignis has taken a spot next to Iris on the sofa, who is telling him all about her day at school. “Have you seen the guy? He barely even looks older than Iris.” Clarus frowns at that but Gladiolus isn't persists, “If you're gonna leave us with someone like him, y'might as well just leave Iris with me. ”

This argument is as worn, old and tired as how Clarus feels right now and yet Clarus is still surprised Gladiolus resurrects it time and time again hoping for a different outcome.

“Ignis comes well recommended by your Uncle Regis, and Iris has certainly had no complaints. Any issue you take with Ignis without assessing his actual performance would be an insult to your Uncle Regis, Iris and Ignis himself. All I ask is you give him a chance,” Clarus says, his tone commanding and final, giving Gladiolus no room to argue, “You'll be back with Cor by next Friday anyway so I _really_ don't see the fuss,” Clarus checks his watch, “Look son, I _know_ you're capable and responsible, you don’t need to prove this to me. So it won't hurt for you to help Ignis out tonight then right?”

Clarus walks over to the sofa and Ignis stands to greet him. Clarus stands next to Ignis, and claps him on the shoulder, and continues where he left off with his son. “And besides, Ignis here to support would give you and Iris more time to spend together. What say you Iris?”

Iris squeals in delight. “I've always wanted to play with both Gladdy and Ignis at the same time!”

He challenges his son with a cocked brow.

Iris grins up at Gladio, bright and toothy.

Ignis looks up at Gladiolus, hopeful.

Gladio sets his mouth in a straight line.

“Fine.”

 

Clarus beckons Ignis to the kitchen, partly to let him know of dinner arrangements (he normally leaves money for Ignis to drive Iris to the grocery store and have free rein of the kitchen together, or sometimes they’ll order takeout, the reputable kind) but partly also to apologise for his son’s sudden intrusion.

“Cor's down with a virus and he didn't want to expose the boy to anything,” he thumbs the bills in his hand, counting out the cash before he hands them to Ignis, “Iris can be enough of a handful herself, and I'm aware adding a teenager to the mix may further complicate things. And I do apologise for his rudeness. ”

“I'm sure we can find some common ground,” says Ignis, and surely he could right? They were both teenage boys after all. “And he seemed…” Ignis pilfers through his mind for a word,  “Sweet? I suppose? With Iris at least.”

 “She has that effect on him,” says Clarus, his voice fond, as he stares off to a point past the kitchen window, “He really is a good lad, when you get past all that,” he swirls a hand around like a conductor in an orchestra, “All of _that_ . You'll be friends in no time. But trust me, you'll prefer Gladiolus as he is now soon enough,” Clarus says as they exit the kitchen to enter the hallway, “Once both of them are comfortable with you, _that's_ when they'll eventually team up,” Clarus taps the side of his nose, “And that's what you should be afraid of.”

 

Leaving Ignis with words that do nothing to soothe his anxiety, Clarus returns to the office again that evening, having just ducked out to brief Ignis in Jared’s place.

Ignis rolls up his sleeves, takes a deep breath, and turns back into the living room to rejoin the Amicitia siblings, ready to take on the evening ahead.

 

The evening started off without a hitch. Ignis had not thought it possible but, Iris is a lot more exuberant and energetic and all around happier spending the evening with her brother. She has reached the cusp of a few tantrums, more so than she’s ever had when it was only Ignis with her, but to Ignis’s surprise, Gladiolus is as well-versed in diffusing them as he is in inciting them and Ignis quickly learns to let him step in more often.

When he isn’t busy with Iris, Gladiolus sits in an armchair across the living room, aloof, almost unengaged, a book open in one hand, which he had been reading at the start of the evening. Ignis had asked him about his book, _trying to find that common ground,_ to no avail, with Gladiolus only offering him one-word answers and non-committal grunts.

Sometimes he peers over his book, with no subtlety at all, probably no intention of having any either, keeping a watchful gaze at Ignis, almost as if he is dissecting his every move. Ignis ascribes Gladiolus’s fierce scrutiny to brotherly concern, and shakes it off, striving to perform his duty as Iris’s sitter beyond whatever expectation Gladiolus might have.

But every once in a while, while Ignis braids Iris’s hair with careful fingers, or when he sings along to princess duets with Iris with astonishing accuracy, Ignis will meet Gladiolus's glances, and will proffer a friendly smile, somewhat embarrassed: quite frankly, he’s only recently grown accustomed to taking part in Iris’s activities with gusto, and this is the first time he’s done so with an audience. Gladiolus always _hmphs_ , before turning his attention back to his book.

Eventually, Ignis soon learns that Iris is the panacea to Gladiolus’s feigned teenage apathy. The older Amicita could only pretend to be so disinterested until Iris takes both of his hands in each of hers so they can sing along and dance and pretend to be ice princesses, or on the verge of tears and with a tremble in her lip asks Gladiolus if he could untangle the friendship bracelet she was trying to make for Ignis.

Despite his open hostility, Gladiolus’s level of cooperation is not something Ignis could complain about. He eats his dinner with no need for extortion, including his vegetables, only sometimes picking out his potatoes for Iris to have (not because he didn't like them, but rather as Iris loves them). He even, Astrals above, cleans up after himself and Iris without being asked.

 Later in the evening, the game console is rebooted. Ignis reads over his study notes on the expansive family sofa, satisfied that the Amicitias are sufficiently distracted with a relatively harmless activity.

(Gladiolus is similarly assured that Ignis is also sufficiently distracted, and he is, so he misses the inadvertent curious glances that Gladiolus sneaks his way.)

 

“Wanna try, Ignis?” Iris shoves the controller in his hands, discontented with her consistent defeat, “I just can't beat him.”

“I've never played this game before though, surely you've better chances than I would,” Ignis tries to sound apologetic, and really he is, as he makes to hand the controller back.

Iris pouts and her eyes start to water.

Gladiolus glowers.

“But I will endeavour to do my best.”

Ignis gets up on his feet and stands to face Gladiolus in front of the TV.

He clutches the controller in two hands observing their buttons to settle his nerves. Not that he need be so nervous, as it's only a _game_.

Not that he was familiar with many games.

Definitely not the kind in front of him now: games that require movement with great abandon, and mostly importantly, Ignis muses with a sigh, other people to play them with.

Following the game's instructions displayed on the TV, he looks toward his opponent and holds his controller by his hip.

He meets his opponent's glare. Brows slightly raised and his chin raised up slightly, no one could misinterpret Gladiolus’s appraisal of Ignis as as an unworthy opponent.

(But nobody could hear Gladiolus's pulse as it thunders through his ears.)

Ignis had every intention of phoning it in. But with that glare steeled upon him, that's when it hits Ignis.

Gladiolus takes to each task with an earnestness and sincerity, and like now, a _seriousness,_ for the enjoyment of his sister.

 _That's_ how Ignis will prove himself worthy.

 

The game sounds off and the two strut, and in Ignis's case, hobbles mechanically, across their imaginary catwalk towards each other.

Iris gasps awed, the tension palpable in her little 5-year-old mind.

“You can do it Ignis!”

As the game prompts them to strike a pose, Ignis, spurned on by his captive audience in Iris, poses with a flourish, hand on hip which he cocks to one side with his other arm bent at the elbow, hand on the side of his head.

Gladiolus chooses something more daring, both hands on his hips, rounding out his back and rolling his shoulders forward.

The game announces the winner. Iris screams again.

“I've never beaten Gladdy ever!”

Still holding his pose, Ignis glances at Gladiolus, who straightens up and crosses his arms.

“Beginner's luck,” he scoffs.

Ignis smirks. Which in turn grows into a grin, and then into a peal of laughter.

“What kind of pose was _that_?”

“Are you kidding? That's how they all do it nowadays.” Gladiolus snaps back. There is no hint of aggression in his response, and Ignis would swear he could see the hint of a smile there too. “And what the heck was _your_ pose? When was the last time you saw a supermodel? Like 200 years ago?”

“The judges have spoken!” hails Iris before running up to her brother and jumping and grabbing onto his waist. “The evil is defeated!”

“Hey! Who're you callin’ evil?” Gladiolus counters. He picks up Iris with ease and heaves her up on his shoulder like a sack of flour.

Iris giggles and squeals and flails the entire time as Gladiolus runs around the living room , bouncing her around on his shoulder, eventually doing a circuit from the living room, to the kitchen, to the hallway and back to the living room, Ignis flitting along nervously behind them all the way.

Eventually, Iris quiets down and hangs limply on Gladiolus's shoulder.

Gladiolus looks at Ignis, and Ignis feels his chest fill with a surge of honour.

“Time to get ready for bed I should think.”

To his surprise Gladiolus nods in agreement and sets Iris down onto the floor.

Iris weakly protests, only stopping when she creates the association that her every stomp and grumble earns her a rough but good natured ruffle of the head from her brother.

 

The two siblings shuffle up to the second floor up to their rooms, with Ignis trailing behind. He waits a few minutes outside of Iris’s room, knocking a couple of times to check if she needs help, before leaning on the wall next to her door to wait for her to re-emerge, while Gladiolus re-enters the hallway from his room, in faded track pants and a worn tank top, replacing his hoodie from before.

Ignis was already clear that Gladiolus already has the frame, which yet has room to grow if the large appetite he displayed at dinner was anything to go by, he just needed to fill it in.

What only becomes clear to Ignis now, is that Gladiolus has already started doing so: with arms crossed (from perpetual disapproval towards him, most likely) Ignis can see the beginnings of lean muscle in his shoulders and forearms and a slight bulge to his biceps. _And who the hell already has developed trapezius muscles at 13?_

It really was unfair how genetics could be so kind to some and terrible to others. Ignis tries his hardest not to feel inadequate, but on reflex, trails his fingers across old acne scars on his chin.

 

The sound of Gladiolus clearing his throat snaps Ignis out of his reverie.

 

Ignis sends a silent prayer to the gods, hoping for Iris to leave her room already so he can make sure she brushes her teeth properly, but also so she can take Ignis out of this situation altogether.

“I don't need you to check my toothbrushing, in case you're wondering,” says Gladiolus with an impish smile.

“I wouldn't even dare dream of it,” Ignis assures.

Silence stretches out between them.

“You get along with Iris,” says Gladiolus.

“It helps that she’s very precocious for her age,” Ignis says, fiddling with his shirt sleeve buttons.

 

Another beat of silence passes.

 

Gladiolus leans on the wall next to Ignis and folds his arms behind his head, “Same could be said ‘bout you.”

Ignis stops fiddling with his sleeves, “I beg your pardon?”

“Yeah, like that! Who says stuff like that nowadays?” Gladiolus jibes, “You must be, like what, one, two years older than me right?”

Ignis squeezes the bridge of his nose from under his glasses, “Gladio,” He fixes his gaze back on Iris’s door, “I’m 17 years old.”

Gladiolus’s smirk plummets off his face, “You're kidding right?”

Ignis shakes his head. He’s crossed his own arms now, hoping that if he folds in himself enough, he could probably collapse into a singularity and disappear, “Is _this_ why you were so against me babysitting her?” Ignis says, tapping his finger impatiently above his elbow, eyes still glued to Iris’s door.

“Well look at you, you're so-” Gladiolus waves a hand violently up and down, as if to regard Ignis's entire being, “You're so _small._ I'm even taller than you!”

“Did you ever stop to wonder, that maybe, you are too big for your age?” Ignis snaps back at him, “That maybe you're the _exception_ , and not the rule?”

Gladiolus’s frowns in thought, and Ignis mistakes it for Gladiolus considering his statement for a moment, but then his mouth turns up again and that obnoxious smirk returns, and Ignis immediately regrets his choice of words. 

“You think I’m _exceptional_?”

“Wha- No-”, Ignis stutters, “That’s not what I said!”

Before Gladiolus could torment him further, Iris bursts out of her room, garbed in a onesie shaped like a moogle, pompom and all, with toothbrush in hand.

“I put it on all by myself,” she declares, toothbrush raised high in triumph. _That explains the delay._

“Got your singing toothbrush?” asks Gladiolus.

“Yep!”

Ignis looks at the bright pink electric toothbrush in Iris's hand. He's seen them in stores before: when the toothbrush starts up, it plays a song for 2 minutes, which is how long Insomnia’s leading dentists recommend one should brush their teeth for.

They march off to the bathroom, armed to fend off cavities.

Ignis is still flustered, but finds it hard to stay as such for very long.

As they brush their teeth, the Amicitia siblings sing along to the song playing from Iris’s toothbrush, toothbrushes in their mouths doing nothing to stop them from mouthing the words.

He anticipates that there will be a mess of toothpaste afterwards, but can’t find it in himself to care as he listens with fondness to their garbled singing.

____

Ignis tries not to feel too guilty when Clarus transfers him double his normal rate. Clarus insists: despite Ignis's insistence otherwise, surely he is only being polite when he says that Gladiolus had been no trouble at all. 

Ignis eventually accepts. He reasons to himself that it's justified for being subjected to the teasing of a 13-year-old.

Somewhere up on the second floor, Gladiolus falls asleep, with a smile that he can't seem to shake off.


	2. Chapter 2

For some of the evenings that Ignis babysits for the Amicitia household, Jared would show Ignis into the living room and Gladiolus would already be there, lounging with a book like he had every right to be (well in a sense, he did, as it is  _his_ house, but that’s beside the point) while Iris sat and watched cartoons by his feet.

It happens often enough that Ignis has managed to shake off the double rate, for one, his normal rate was more than adequate a contribution to his growing nest egg, but more importantly, he cannot in good conscience accept extra pay for the care of someone who  _well_ , practically takes care of himself. As a compromise, Clarus gives him extra money for their dinner instead, which Ignis accepts with no hesitation.

It wouldn’t be such a problem if Gladiolus was consistently as cooperative as he was that first evening.

But Ignis can't figure out if it was his runway victory or if it was the revelation of his age, but Gladiolus has been friendlier, an apt term for now, considering how low the bar was initially set, but Clarus's words echo in his head that first evening with the teen, that his ‘friendliness’ comes with a level of mischief Ignis did not think Gladiolus was capable of.

(Ignis had never experienced the common playground tactics employed by boys vying for the attention of their objects of affection. Or rather Ignis  _has_ , but he never realised that he did, for the same reason that he can’t figure out the reason for Gladiolus’s change of tune now.)

The following evening, Gladiolus was as he was before, a sullen wallflower with his book and his glower, greeting Ignis with a curt nod, before picking off his glasses to pop onto high furniture, much to Iris’s amusement and to Ignis’s confusion ( _‘I don’t really see the point Gladiolus, we’re almost the same height, I can still reach it, what is so funny about that?’_ ), but Iris's ceaseless giggles urge her brother on, and Ignis finds his glasses deftly and swiftly removed without warning throughout the course of the evening, which he must then retrieve to the chorus of Iris’s chiming laughter and Gladiolus’s quiet snicker.

The evening the week after that, bedtime, which had arguably always been the easiest for Ignis, as Iris is always quick to expend her energy, had become a warzone: just as it was time to inform Iris that it was time for bed, Gladiolus had briskly walked past, and hauled Iris up like a satchel under his arm, then breaking off into a sprint across the room away from Ignis, dodging every time Ignis gets close.

Every evening, Gladiolus has had every intention of disrupting Ignis’s carefully laid out plans and activities, and what’s worse is that Iris is having way too much fun with her older brother to act against them, almost as if the relationship Ignis has cultivated with her in the weeks without Gladiolus had meant nothing to her.

Sure, at least Ignis has never had to witness the temper that Clarus had cautioned him against, but Gladiolus’s mischief tests Ignis’s patience in a way Clarus’s warnings would never prepare him for. When Ignis was initially hired as Noctis’s tutor, and soon after, Iris’s babysitter, he had readied a protocol for giving either a child a talking-to when the need arose. He never knew he would have to implement his protocol for stern talkings-to to a teenager who stands almost eye to eye with him during  _said_ talkings-to, with an indifferent expression and glazed over golden eyes and an air of innocence that implies that nothing from Ignis’s talkings-to has registered with him at all.

One evening, Gladiolus convinces Iris that broccoli are actually miniature trees that house miniscule creatures that live in your stomach, and in her disgust, Iris pours all her vegetables onto Gladiolus’s plate, and Ignis has to put his foot down.

 

“Y’know what you need hon’?” Cindy tells him over one lunchtime, seated cross-legged on a bench in their school courtyard, “Y’need a  _fresh approach_. This kid obviously doesn’t see you as his babysitter.”

“Which I’m not,” says Ignis from next to her, staring at his sandwich in confusion. Ignis was not one to complain about work, but Cindy had asked the innocent question of,  _how was it all going_ , in that caring and concerned tone of hers, and Ignis couldn’t contain his work woes from spilling forth, “I’m his sister’s babysitter.”

Cindy rolls her eyes, and shakes her head, her bob of golden curls swaying with each movement, “Not my point!” she leans across the bench and takes a carrot stick from his lunchbox, “My point is, he’s been runnin’ ‘round the house like he owns the place when his ‘pa’s out right?”

Ignis nods, chewing his food thoughtfully.

“‘So his baby sister’s gonna follow along, ‘cos think about it Iggy darl’, who would you side with if you were her? Her fun ol’ big brother, or the guy her ‘pa pays to make sure she goes to bed on time?”

Ignis wants to argue that Iris probably doesn’t entirely know about the transactional nature of his presence there, but he does see his best friend’s point.

“How do you suppose I should stop him then? Reprimanding him worked as well as doing nothing about it at all.”

Cindy leans back with her,  _no wait_ , Ignis sighs,  _that’s my bottle of juice,_  “He doesn’t see you as his babysitter,” she repeats as she takes a small sip from the bottle, “And you don’t well  _try_ to babysit ‘im either.”

“Well no,” says Ignis. Sure, he looks out for Gladiolus as he would Iris, and he cooks for Gladiolus as he does Iris, and Gladiolus is always free to join in on their games and activities that Ignis puts together,  _for Iris_ . Though vexatious as of late, Gladiolus has never caused any  _real_  trouble, he eats what he should, and plays with Iris when she asks. Ignis has never enforced his authority as babysitter with Gladiolus, because until now, he’s  _never needed to._

“So show him exactly how you  _would_  babysit him then darlin’,” Cindy drawls before chugging down half of Ignis’s orange juice.

 

The gears in his head begin to turn when Iris knocks the wind out of him in a teary hug one evening, explaining through choked sobs that Gladiolus won’t let her play one of his video games, “ _‘cos it’s not for babies_.”

“I’m not a baby!” wails Iris into Ignis’s vest.

Ignis pats her back, each pat full of sympathy, and while softly explaining through hushed tones that he’ll find a game that they can play together, he happens upon an idea.

If there’s something Ignis could always count on, it’s that the Amicitia siblings are two feathers off the same chocobo.

 

Ignis cooks dinner for them the following week, taking full advantage of the Amiticia’s fully armed, state-of-the-art kitchen, and Iris and Gladiolus are more than happy to partake.  

He had painstakingly marinated and grilled premium cuts of beef (because Clarus always questions why Ignis always returns so much of the dinner cash) uniformly arranged on skewers, served with a side of salad, and for more choice on Iris’s part, peas, carrots and potatoes.

They take their meals in the informal dining space that branches off the kitchen, a space reserved for when the Amicitias are not entertaining guests. It’s a rustic nook that serves as a stark contrast to the rest of the manor, with its modestly sized table in a distressed white wood finish, and matching chairs adorned with cushions of mismatched patterns of florals or fruit.

Gladiolus wolfs his meal down aside Iris who nibbles demurely from her skewer, while Ignis sits across them, glancing up every once in a while to take in their enjoyment.

Gladiolus always eats like a man recovering from a year-long hunger strike, so making him eat anything is never a monumental achievement, but the focus he invests on the meal in front him is none like Ignis has ever seen before.

The sight of the two Amicitias sitting across from him fills Ignis with pride, warmth and the scent of opportunity.  

“I trust dinner is to your liking, you two?”

“It's the best thing I've ever eaten!” Iris chimes with a swish of the skewer in her hand, only narrowly managing to avoid gouging out Gladiolus's eye.  

“Iris, you say that about everything I cook for you,” says Ignis, sliding off a chunk of meat from a skewer to his plate with a fond smile.

“Nah,” argues Gladiolus, already finishing off his third skewer, “I think she’s for real this time.”

“Would you like some more?” asks Ignis innocently.  

Gladiolus regards the skewer in Ignis’s hand and hums in affirmative, mouth full of food while he scoops himself more vegetables.

A second later, Gladiolus lifts his face up, and is met with Ignis leaning over the table, a fork modestly filled with food in hand, which he delivers towards Gladiolus’s mouth in a slow, smooth arch.

“Here comes the airship Gladiolus,” Ignis drones like a bingo caller reading out numbers to the seniors of Insomnia’s Country Club, “Open up.”

Gladiolus’s eyes shoot open in shock and Iris titters in delight. Ignis would have wanted to take time to laugh at his reaction as well, but soon Gladiolus starts thumping his chest with a balled fist and starts coughing, and Ignis, in a feat of composure, gestures for Iris to grab a glass of water, while he rounds to Gladiolus’s side of the table to help clear the obstruction.

He’s already wrapped his arms around the younger boy’s waist, when Gladiolus’s coughing starts clearing up. Ignis holds his position, cautious that he may start coughing again, until Gladiolus mutters, “Ignis, what the  _fuck_?” he glances down at the pale arms around his waist and then asks, quieter, in a small breathless voice, “Why are you hugging me?”

“Language, Gladiolus,” huffs Ignis, relieved that his reluctant charge is no longer in danger, he slowly pulls his arms out from under him, “It sounded like you were choking so I thought I'd help clear the obstruction.”

“I wouldn’t have needed it if just–, if you hadn’t just–” Gladiolus groans and drinks the glass of water Iris hands him, “Hadn’t done  _that_.”

“I apologise,” says Ignis, and now that he knows for sure that Gladiolus is okay, adds, “Well you asked for more food didn’t you? You take such huge mouthfuls I thought I’d help and show you how to eat properly.”

“I can stick food in my mouth myself, Ignis, you huge  _weirdo_ !” Gladiolus groans in frustration, before sitting back down to resume his eating, his near-choke experience having done nothing to diminish his appetite (Ignis’s cooking was just  _that_  good).

Iris looks up at Ignis from her spot next to her brother, her eyes hopeful, “Can you do the airship-and-hug with me next?”

Ignis does, omitting the need for the “hug” of course, not necessary in this case, to Ignis’s relief. He even gets to use Gladiolus’s episode as an important lesson of regulating the size of your bites as you eat.

Iris nods and agrees, happy to please, before suggesting that maybe Ignis should do more of the airship-and-hug with her brother  _again_  next, just so he remembers, and Gladiolus gnashes through the rest of his meal.

 

So. Iris’s respect is easy enough to win back.  Ignis should have laid it to rest then, considering he did almost choke a boy under his care, unwillingly, he might add. But. 

 

He returns from the kitchen, having loaded the dishwasher and packed the leftovers away, and he takes a seat on the sofa between Iris and Gladiolus, who have already picked out a movie to round off the evening. He sits back and opens his textbook.  

Only he finds that the last page he had bookmarked is covered entirely in yellow post-it notes, and once he’s cleared this page, he spots a similar situation a few pages later but in pink, and then another few pages more in blue, and then the next several in various other post-it colours, and probably the next fifty or so pages in various intervals (up until Gladiolus and, though she will never own up to it if asked, Iris, had run out of post-it notes from Clarus’s study).

Ignis sighs, but he figures this is a small price to pay considering, again, he  _did_  almost choke someone.

This is but a childish,  _harmless,_  joke in comparison.

Ignis  _should_ have left it there, but there’s a fire that’s been ignited in him that he can’t quite fathom, so instead he throws Gladiolus his most menacing look, a threat of more to come, but Gladiolus remains unfazed, focused entirely on the TV, with only an amused smirk as evidence of otherwise.

 

Later in the evening, just before bedtime, Ignis pokes his head into the bathroom while the Amicitias brush their teeth.

“You’re doing an amazing job Iris,” Ignis praises, in an encouraging voice he reserves mostly for her (and sometimes also Noctis).

Iris smiles a toothy smile around her toothbrush and Gladiolus rolls his eyes at the mirror.

“Now now, Gladiolus, you’re doing an astounding job too, if you could put in a teensy-bit more effort,” Ignis continues, tone lilting and melodic, while Gladiolus eyes him with suspicion, “That’s brushing  _way_  too hard now, a little less pressure now, there we go, that’s the ticket.”

Gladiolus stops his brushing for a moment, presumably to ask Ignis what the  _hell_ he’s doing, but Ignis tuts, “Two minutes Gladiolus, it hasn’t even been one, it must be two minutes, show him how many minutes Iris.”

Still brushing her teeth to the tune streaming out from her toothbrush, Iris raises two fingers with her free hand.

“Absolutely stellar,” Ignis coos.

The tune from Iris’s toothbrush cuts out to signal the end of their brushing and Gladiolus spits his toothpaste out into the sink with intense vitriol.

“Man, are you trying to choke me again?”

“Goodness me, no,” Ignis says in mock offense, a hand to his own chest to emphasise his sincerity, “I’m only concerned with your dental hygiene, I know not all of us can be as good as Iris.”

Iris spits out her toothpaste and rinses out her mouth with water from a moogle patterned cup, “Yeah Gladdy, Ignis says I’m stellar!” she rinses her toothbrush out and looks back up at her brother, “What’s stellar mean?”

“It means you’re a star,” mutters Gladiolus through gritted teeth, ruffling Iris’s hair, but with a glare fixed on Ignis.

“Yeah!” Iris cheers, blissfully unaware of the exchange happening above her, “I'm gonna tell Daddy that Ignis thinks I’m a star toothbrusher.”

“Make sure you mention your brother and how much better you are than him, love,” encourages Ignis.

“No Iris, make sure you  _don't_  mention your brother,” Gladiolus adds on his way out of the door.

“Gladdy wait!” Iris pulls out the small plastic case she had rifled through the bathroom drawers for, “We're meant to floss.”

Gladiolus avoids the self-satisfied grin on Ignis's face and plucks the floss from Iris's hand and mumbles, “I didn't forget.”

(He did forget, but he's not going to say that in front of  _Ignis_ , as disarming his smile is.)

 

Gladiolus’s authority sufficiently undermined, Ignis never gives the beaten Gladiolus time to counter. Heading back to the stairwell from Iris's room, he sees Gladiolus’s open bedroom door present itself as the ripe moment for the finishing blow.

Gladiolus is lying on his side in his bed, a book opened flat in front of him. Puzzled at what Ignis could possibly want this late at night, he opens his mouth to ask when–

“Shall I tuck you into bed, Gladiolus?”

Gladiolus stutters and splutters and Ignis hears a barely eloquent “can you  _cut_  that shit out!” as he exits, snapping the door shut behind him.

Ignis allows himself a moment to laugh at the results of his work. He knows he’ll have something coming for him the following Friday, but he’ll take it. Clarus had been wrong. This Gladiolus is far more enjoyable than the moody teenager that Ignis had endured before.

Otherwise, Ignis probably would have never had gotten a chance to see Gladiolus blush a furious shade.

* * *

Ignis did have something waiting for him the following Friday, and the Friday after that.

The small jokes Gladiolus plays and the small jabs Ignis takes at Gladiolus’s ego soon turn into a series of pranks, which continue for a few more weeks, and apart from that One Time Ignis Almost Choked Gladiolus, they remain for the most part harmless.

Gladiolus wakes up one morning to the longer section of his undercut transformed into a head full of thin braids, or Ignis finds all his stationery and workbooks taped in place to random furniture around the house, or an old video of Gladiolus dancing at his kindergarten school showcase is played instead of their evening movie (Iris's idea), or Ignis wakes up from a power nap he had taken assuming the two had gone to bed, with eyes drawn on his eyelids in marker, and only realising this when Clarus sees him off and points it out (also Iris's idea: Iris is never subjected to their pranks, they wouldn't  _dare_ , but the boys at least let her freely cross enemy lines and play double agent).

Their jokes and pranks initially started as way for Ignis to get back at Gladiolus, to prove that he wasn't going to take his incessant mucking about without a fight. But Iris would squeal in glee a bit too loudly, or Gladiolus would look just that bit bewildered and defiant, almost impressed, when he’s bested by Ignis, and Ignis finds that he can’t help but keep playing along.

There’s never been much scope in Ignis’s childhood for  _tomfoolery_  or  _horsing around_ , as his uncle would describe it. Ignis’s childhood is framed with memories of caring for a mother who often took ill, and the lack of a father to roughhouse with altogether, and although his uncle cares for him like he was one of his own, Ignis had always felt the need to justify his being taken in by constantly proving his own excellence.

If Ignis had to tell the truth, he's quite enjoying himself.

But like all good things, their fun soon had to come to an abrupt halt.

 

It had started off, as always, harmless: Ignis was coming back from the kitchen after washing up after dinner and had switched off the lights, and Gladiolus happened to be right around the corner of one of the kitchen's cabinets, incidentally at the perfect position to scare Ignis.

(And it  _was_  incidental. Gladiolus didn't mean to scare him at first. Iris had fallen asleep on the couch, and Gladiolus had gotten bored, so he figured he could go to the kitchen, tease Ignis a little,  _maybe_  also help him clean up, see that little crinkle that forms in the corner of Ignis’s eyes whenever he smiles ‘cos Iris has done something really well, but this time it’d be for  _him_ –

But then he spotted the vantage point he had from the cabinet and he couldn't resist.)

It worked a bit too well. In shock, Ignis had slipped forward on a rag that he hadn’t seen fall to the floor earlier during his clean up, and in an attempt to grab onto the nearest bit of furniture he could find on his way down, his forehead had collided with the corner of the heavy cabinet, before landing forward in a heap, pulling his arms towards him to break the rest of his fall.

“Holy  _shit fuck Ignis,_  I'm sorry I didn't see–” Gladiolus drops to the floor to help Ignis sit up,  “Fuck, are you okay?”

Ignis winces when the dull throb of his head catches up with him, “Well I'm not concussed at least, I think,” Gladiolus helps him up off the floor and into a chair by the kitchen island, “I'm sorry Gladiolus, but I must ask, what the ever loving  _fuck_?”

“It was just to scare ya, I didn't–” Gladiolus fusses about him tipping Ignis’s face by the chin one side and there, and Ignis lets him, and in his slight dizziness, he puzzles over the delicate touch that belie Gladiolus’s large hands, “I didn't think you were just gonna come crashing down like that!”

“I'm sorry I didn't take to your joke with more grace then,” Ignis hisses.

“Hang on a sec, I got somethin’,” Gladiolus rushes off to the freezer to grab one of the frozen gel packs they keep at the back of the freezer for his frequent sport injuries, which he wraps in a clean tea towel.

He continues to hold up Ignis's chin to get a better look at the bruise colouring with a vengeance on his forehead.

“Sorry Ignis,” he mumbles as he presses the wrapped ice pack into the bruise.

“A necessary evil,” Ignis hisses at the sting of the cold through gritted teeth.

Gladiolus exhales and repeats, “...I'm sorry Ignis.”

“As I said, the ice pack is necessary. It feels soothing already.”

“Nah,” Gladiolus gingerly lifts the ice pack off, careful not to leave it for too long a time, “For the whole scaring you from around the corner in the dark thing.”

Ignis sighs, exasperated, the cold bringing more relief than sting now, “I'd be hard pressed to get any angrier than I am now, considering, well,” Ignis sighs again when the ice pack is briefly lifted off, then reconnects with his head, “I did nearly choke you that one time.”

Gladiolus chuckles, followed by a small almost inaudible relieved sigh.

In their panic, neither of them had thought to turn on the lights and they sit there in semi-darkness, with only the combination of moonlight and the garden lighting streaming through the kitchen window giving them any semblance of illumination.

“I didn’t think you’d actually try and get back at me with something y’know,” Gladiolus mutters.

“Couldn’t let you have all the fun now could I?” says Ignis, the tea towel wrapping the ice pack grazing across his eyelids prompting him to close his eyes.

(The adrenaline from Gladiolus’s panic soon wears off and only then does he notice the lack of distance between their faces, the soft skin of Ignis’s chin against his fingers, Ignis’s tired gaze, eyes still shut; and suddenly Gladiolus feels like he’d been the one concussed.)  

Gladiolus releases Ignis’s chin like his hand had been burned, and pulls away, placing the ice pack down on the island to head back to the pantry.

“Guess we're even now?” asks Gladiolus, back turned away from Ignis as he rummages through the pantry for a roll of paper towels.

“Mostly,” Ignis takes the sheets of paper towels from him when he approaches with a murmured thanks, and starts dabbing at his head, “Until we call your father at least.”

“Do we  _have_  to?” whines Gladiolus.

“It's better than him turning up to find his babysitter with an unexplained bruise on his head.”  

 _He’d probably think his son had decided to settle things with the babysitter in hand-to-hand combat._   

A roar of boyish laughter from Gladiolus resounds throughout the kitchen.

Ignis squints, “Did I say that out loud?”  

“Y’sure you feel okay?” asks Gladiolus, his voice tinged with concern.

“Honestly wouldn't be able to tell you right now,” says Ignis with a dark laugh.

“Nah come on, I’m sure it’s fine,” he crouches in front of Ignis and holds up three fingers directly in front of his nose, “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Ignis rolls his eyes,“It’s obviously three,”

Gladiolus picks up the ice pack from the island again and hands it to Ignis who takes it in both hands, “Alrighty, what day it is today?”

Ignis continues to humour him, but the corners of his mouth turn up as his worries slowly subside, “What day am I ever here?”

“Good enough answer,” nods Gladiolus, “Last question.”

Ignis hums, placing the wrapped ice pack back on his head.

“Did I really just hear you say ‘ _fuck_ ’?”

Ignis breathes out a heavy sigh, “I’m pretty sure I landed on solid timber.”

“I just didn’t think it was coded into your system,” Gladiolus retorts, his smirk visible from the outdoor lamplight.

“I guess you missed the part where they updated my firmware,”  says Ignis as he rises from his seat, before taking slow steps to the doorway, as if to check if his brain wasn’t too badly shaken in the impact.

Gladiolus chuckles and holds a hand out behind an unsuspecting Ignis,   _just in case_ , “Didn't think you could be funny either.”

Ignis turns from the doorway to give him a wink from under his ice pack, “I had to have that patched in.”

(Something warm blooms in Gladiolus's chest.)

“Yep. Definitely not concussed.”

* * *

 

“ _But it’s fine though, sir, I’m not concussed,”_  was not good enough for the head of the Amicitia household.

Ignis had considered telling Clarus that he simply tripped and fell, but it didn’t sit well with him to encourage Gladiolus into the habit of lying to his father. It was quite perplexing for Ignis however, that Gladiolus never thought to suggest this himself either.

Instead, they had called his father and Gladiolus had taken the phone, and unwaveringly explained how Ignis’s fall came to be. Clarus’s sigh over the phone was exhausted and frustrated, followed by the ominous promise of  _“we’ll talk later.”_

From where Ignis packs his backpack in the hallway, it is not difficult to overhear Clarus admonishing his son through the thick timber door of the study; he catches  _a poor influence on Iris,_ or  _a huge insult_ or  _a total lack of respect for Ignis._

What Ignis does  _not_  hear, are any interjections nor excuses from Gladiolus, with no mention of Ignis’s involvement whatsoever. As far as Clarus is concerned, this was merely Gladiolus terrorising the babysitter whose presence and existence he abhorred.

A pit of guilt forms in Ignis’s stomach.

Clarus pauses his tirade, and Ignis takes it as his cue to still his nerves and knock on the study door.

“I’m sorry to intrude sir,” says Ignis as he steps in, hands clutching at the collar of his jacket which he hadn't realised he'd brought in with him, “If could I just have a word.”

Gladiolus is half-leaning on the front of a long mahogany desk, which Ignis recognises from his interview for the job, his arms crossed, a scowl back in place, and his chest puffed out at his father, who stands across from him, looking exhausted but equally as displeased.

The two turn towards to the door as Ignis meekly enters. The tension between father and son is almost suffocating, and Ignis almost turns back.

“Leave it, Ignis,” grumbles Gladiolus, his tone a weak attempt at menacing in an effort to shut Ignis out of the conversation, but he cannot fool Ignis, who doesn’t miss the sleep creeping into the younger boy's voice, and the heaviness in his eyelids.

Ignis ignores Gladiolus and instead turns to regard his father, “I’m just as at fault sir. The three of us have been playing jokes on each other the past few weeks and I went along with them,” he pauses, wringing the collar of his jacket with clammy hands, “This evening was just a miscalculation. I apologise for not stepping in when I should've,” he takes a deep breath and adds, “Gladiolus didn't mean to hurt anyone sir. In fact, he was the one who acted promptly to help me out as soon as I fell.”

Clarus stern gaze tracks from his son to Ignis.

Despite the deafening pulse in his ears, Ignis holds his bruised head up high, prepared to take any punishment for his own misstep, as well as his interjection, while Gladiolus looks on, dumbfounded into silence.

“This isn’t what I expected from you, Ignis.” Clarus begins.

Ignis hopes neither Amicitia had noticed him flinch. This is it. Surely, Clarus would pass the details of tonight on to Regis, that the boy they've both hired is a danger to himself, and would naturally also be a danger to their children, and hadn't had the sense to control a 13-year old who had run rampant, and once word gets out that he'd been fired by  _both_  Clarus Amicitia  _and_  Regis Lucis Caelum, he'll lose his other job too and possibly his schooling and any future prospects of employment or further education.

“Hey wait a sec–” barks Gladiolus.  

“ _But_ ,” says Clarus, “From what I’ve gathered from the two of you, neither of you meant any malice by it.”

“Absolutely not, sir—” says Ignis, while Gladiolus clamors with, “Hell no—”

Clarus clears his throat, “I will overlook this for tonight,” Ignis lets out a huge sigh of relief, “But,” and Ignis once again braces himself, “There will be no more pranks,” his brow creases in deep concern, “Someone could have gotten seriously hurt.”

Gladiolus looks prepared to argue back, and Ignis would laugh at his need to negotiate such a condition, considering that the end result is far better of a punishment than what he was catastrophizing, but Clarus is waiting for a response and it would be poor form to laugh now.

“I completely understand sir,” says Ignis, and Gladiolus clamps his mouth shut, “No more pranks.”

* * *

Clarus calls a cab for Ignis, not entirely confident that Ignis feels well enough to drive, and promises that someone will be by to bring his uncle’s car around in the morning – he’s already called and apologised to Ignis’s uncle as well, letting him know to take Ignis to the doctor should his head feel worse, and Ignis made sure to follow-up right after to assure him that he was okay, and that no-one was at fault.

Ignis sits on a stool by the front door, his nerves shot from his earlier intervention, and thumbs through his phone for his to-do lists for the weekend: he has the morning shift at the cafe tomorrow, so there’s plenty of time for homework afterwards, but the following day, he’ll be on closing, so there’s blocks of time in the morning and a bit of time afterwards for catch-up study, but the library will be closed sooner then so–

“You didn't have to do that,” a familiar voice grunts from down the hallway.

Ignis looks up from his phone as Gladiolus shuffles towards him in an old rugby sweater and sweatpants.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed by now?”

“In a sec, just–” Gladiolus scowls up at the ceiling and scratches his face.

Ignis looks on at him from the stool, arms around the backpack on his lap and phone still in his hands, and he waits quietly for him to finish.

Gladiolus searches for the words, searches for  _something,_ his eyes landing on the umbrella stand, the shoes lined up at the door, landing on anything but at Ignis's curious gaze.

“Thanks for earlier,” Gladiolus finally mumbles. His glare is still hard but the droop in his shoulders make him seem smaller than he is, “He looked ready to rip me a new one in there.”

Ignis peers over his bag to glance at his phone, unlocking and locking it, and asks in a voice that comes out smaller than intended, “Thank you too.”

“Huh?”

Ignis sits up straighter in his stool, “For covering for me.”

Gladiolus shrugs, “It would’ve sucked if you lost your job all ‘cos I messed with you first.”

“Oh,” Ignis says, his soft voice still directed towards the bag in his lap, “Um, thanks.”

“It's nothing.” Gladiolus shrugs again and scratches his head while he stifles a small yawn, “And uh, I dunno if you heard Dad yelling about it but,” he pauses to rub the back of his neck, “I didn't mess with you ‘cos I don't respect you or anything,” he pauses, and concentrates on tying and untying and tying the drawstring of his sweatpants, “I don’t  _not_  respect you, if you get me?”

“I never once thought that,” says Ignis, slightly thrown but delighted by the sudden admission. He briefly considers asking him what’s brought this on, but the sound of a taxi’s horn blares from outside.

Ignis gets up from his seat, pulling his backpack’s straps over his shoulders, “Make sure to get some rest Gladiolus,” he says with a nod and a smile.

(The kind where a little crinkle forms at the corners of his eyes.)

Gladiolus nods back at him, slowly, his drowsiness failing to hide his struggle to keep his eyes open, as well his failure to suppress a small, almost unnoticeable smile.

* * *

“Mr. Leonis must be pleased to have all his Friday nights back,” Ignis had said offhandedly one evening, a different evening, as Clarus walks him to the front door.

“Are you kidding, Ignis? Cor always preferred to work out during the week to keep his weekends focused on recovery,” says Clarus, “It’s  _Gladiolus_  who asked if he could go to the gym with him on weekends instead. Says he wanted to  – ” he lets out a puff of air and waves his hand towards Ignis, as if he wading through memories of conversations past, “Says he wants ‘wind down time’ before he has to workout,” Clarus winces, and unlocks the front door as he mutters to himself, to almost a whisper, “ _Wind down from what_?”

“Oh.” That’s fair, Ignis supposes. Ignis plays  _some_ sport, but he doesn’t know much about gym routines, so he’s not quite sure what to add to that.

“Cor really couldn’t say no – he figures he wants to spend more time with his sister.”

“That’s sweet of him, isn’t it?” says Ignis as steps out of the door.

“Yes, quite,” says Clarus. He leans on the door jamb in deep thought, and rubs the stubble on his cheek with a thumb, his gaze distant, before he looks back at Ignis contemplatively, "We'll see you next week then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HBD Gladio!!!!
> 
> And thank you for the comments, kudos and for reading along :)

**Author's Note:**

> The game they play was loosely based off [this one](https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=1+2+switch+runway).
> 
> It was just a small silly idea that wouldn’t leave my mind. Then one evening I came home really drunk and 5k words hammered itself out. Then I sobered up and had to tidy up my own mess and it got way too long.
> 
> note: I got a rough idea how this'll go, but in case people're uncomfortable with the premise, heads up that the kid bits'll just be mostly their blossoming friendship. it's only good vibes here, dw dw


End file.
